


Common Cause

by baroque_mongoose



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Gen, Mental Health Issues, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 05:19:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2569604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baroque_mongoose/pseuds/baroque_mongoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Times have changed since Ardsley Wooster nearly got Boris Dolokhov killed in the process of saving Lady Heterodyne from the Baron's forces.  These two clever men are now working together to find out what the Tsarevich's secret is, and why it is so important that Princess Orlov has been hounded by her compatriots for years simply because she knows it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Common Cause

There was a brisk tap on the office door, and Boris Dolokhov looked up from the papers in front of him. “Come in,” he called.

“Ah, Herr Dolokhov,” said Sir Ardsley Wooster, striding in. “Glad you could see me.”

“Boris,” replied Dolokhov. “You may as well. Although you do pronounce my surname better than any Englishman I've ever met. Have a seat.”

Sir Ardsley sat down opposite him. “I have some news for you,” he announced.

Boris allowed himself a half smile. “Well, you do appear to be in a very good mood. And you're looking well, incidentally. India seems to have agreed with you.”

“On the whole, yes. I enjoyed the visit very much, and it was nice to be able to brush up my Hindustani.” He reached inside his waistcoat and took out a letter; its wax seal was broken, but still recognisably that of an agent of the British Crown. “I found this waiting for me on my return, and could hardly wait to share it with you. Of course, I did go and see Gil first, but I'm sure you'll understand that.”

Boris took the letter, opened it, read it, and broke into a full grin. “Sir Ardsley,” he said. “That's smooth work. You've just taken a huge weight off my mind.”

Sir Ardsley gave a self-deprecating little shrug. “Well, really, I had to do very little. I merely moved a pawn or two, as it were.”

“Yes. But you know how and when to move the right ones,” Boris replied. “Though it seems I should also thank your man in Moscow.”

“Actually, our woman in Moscow, in this case, but yes. She was very helpful.”

“Well, I feel much happier now. There's nothing worse than the feeling that one is in trouble with one's own authorities, even if they haven't actually been one's own authorities for several years.”

Sir Ardsley rolled his eyes. “I believe I am somewhat familiar with that situation.”

“Ah, yes. But you came out of it very well in the end. Look at you now!”

“Indeed. Oh, and there's one other piece of information you ought to know; not so personal, and I've already told Gil, but something to go on file. Bangladesh DuPree is in prison in India.”

Boris raised an eyebrow. “Is she, now? I thought you told me she was in Italy?”

“She was. I had no way of knowing she was going to take a trip to Lucknow at the same time as I did. Pure coincidence; it seems she has relatives there too.”

“Really?” asked Boris. “I'm surprised she hasn't murdered them all by now. What is she in prison for?”

“Trying to kill me. Well, that was why she was originally arrested, but once they realised who she was, it turned out that the charge sheet was a lot longer than that.”

“I see. How many times has she tried to kill you now?”

“I'm not sure,” Sir Ardsley confessed. “It really depends on whether you count the incident with the lint-removing device or not. That may not have been an attempt at murder so much as an attempt at grievous bodily harm.”

“I wouldn't have thought even DuPree could do too much damage with a lint-removing device,” said Boris.

“It was one of Gil's,” Sir Ardsley pointed out. “It had... additional features. Anyway, is there anything in particular that I ought to know? I imagine things have gone on happening in my absence.”

“Not really, oddly enough,” replied Boris. “I mean, feel free to look at the log.” He took down a large board-bound notebook from the shelf beside him and opened it in front of his visitor. “But, as you see, it's all minor incidents. It's been fairly blissfully quiet, for a change.”

Sir Ardsley scanned it. “It has, hasn't it? That must have been pleasant.”

“Oh, it was.” Boris looked up thoughtfully. “There's something else on your mind, isn't there?”

Sir Ardsley grinned. “You know, I am _so_ glad we settled our little differences. Yes. There is.”

“Care to tell me about it?”

Sir Ardsley nodded. “Do you know the real Princess Orlov? Not, er, the vampire. I must apologise for that little incident as well, although I give you my word I didn't know she was a vampire at the time.”

“Oh, no harm done,” said Boris, who was feeling especially disposed to be generous at the moment for obvious reasons. “Yes and no. I don't know her personally, but of course I do know who she is.”

“All right. You're aware, then, that she has some secret which has always put her in danger from her compatriots?”

Boris nodded slowly. “Yes, but if you're about to ask, I'm afraid I don't know what that secret is. I have frequently wondered.”

“Ah,” said Sir Ardsley. “I believe it may concern the Tsarevich. However, that is all I know, and I was rather hoping you might be able to shed more light.”

Boris flicked an eyebrow at him. “Do you by any chance know the lady personally?”

“Indeed, though I haven't seen her for many years now. I saved her life in Paris. I also fell very deeply in love with her. I didn't tell her that, naturally, since she was a Princess and I was nothing of any importance; unfortunately I have just learnt that she reciprocated my feelings, which is something I may need to spend a little time in digesting. However, you don't want to know about my personal difficulties. It is the secret that is important.”

“Ah,” said Boris. “But your personal difficulties are why the secret is important, yes? You feel that you let her down through your own diffidence, so now you would like to do for her the only thing that is left that you can do, as an honourable married man. You would like to discover the secret in some way that cannot possibly have involved her, so that the secret will no longer be a secret and she will at last be completely safe. And she will not even need to know that you have done it.”

“Boris, you are remarkable,” said Sir Ardsley. “Yes. Precisely.”

“Then we have common cause,” said Boris. “I, too, wish to discover this secret.”

“Why is that?”

“Because your belief that the secret may concern the Tsarevich is, unfortunately, all too likely to be true. You do know, I suppose, that Princess Orlov was romantically involved with the Tsarevich for a while? If he has some dangerous secret, she would be one of the most likely people to know it.”

“I did know that,” said Sir Ardsley.

“And, as the Baron's man, I need to know exactly who I am going to be dealing with when he comes to the throne,” Boris continued. “The Tsar cannot last much longer now. Besides, I am no longer a Russian agent, but I am still a Russian. Even if I were not the Baron's man to the hilt, I would not want someone on the throne of Russia about whom there was... doubt.”

Sir Ardsley nodded. “Good. Neither, I suspect, would Her Undying Majesty, although we generally do not need to give Russia too much thought. We have good reason to conduct a discreet joint operation here.”

“Indeed,” said Boris, in satisfied tones. “So. Who have you got?”

Sir Ardsley thought about this. “I don't think we could get the agent who helped you into the palace. She is too well known in other circles. There is... no. I don't think someone posing as a maid will be of any use. A valet, perhaps. We could certainly manage one of those. Who have _you_ got?”

“What, you have no agent in the palace already?”

“Indeed we have, but he has little to do with the Tsarevich. He is a secretary. The Tsarevich has his own personal secretary, who has been with him for many years.” Sir Ardsley smiled. “And you did not answer my question.”

“We have a maid.” A thought occurred to him. “I suppose your agent is not, by any chance, calling himself Antonov?”

Sir Ardsley grinned. “And I suppose yours is not, by any chance, calling herself Burova?”

The two diplomats exchanged glances and then burst out laughing. “Shall we tell them?” asked Sir Ardsley.

“No... I think we should leave it as an interesting exercise for them both,” replied Boris. “And as long as it isn't interfering with their work, I don't see that their personal lives... life... is any of our business.”

Sir Ardsley chuckled. “Precisely. But we must move to more serious business, I fear. Between the two of us, what do we actually know about the Tsarevich, apart, of course, from the obvious facts that everyone in Russia knows?”

“Let me get a blank piece of paper,” said Boris. “We'd better build a time line.”

This kept the two men thoroughly occupied for the next twenty minutes or so, and when all the information they had available was fitted into place, Sir Ardsley said, “So, what strikes you as interesting here, Boris?”

“This,” replied Boris, without hesitation. He pointed to a line in Sir Ardsley's neat writing. It read simply: “Near-fatal riding accident.”

Sir Ardsley nodded. “Indeed. It looks very much as though almost the first thing the Tsarevich did when he finally recovered was to part company with the Princess.”

“That does not necessarily mean the accident affected his brain, Sir Ardsley,” said Boris mildly.

Sir Ardsley gave him a rueful little smile. “I realise that I am somewhat biased, but I had no idea it was quite so obvious in my voice. Besides, I don't really believe that it did. It must, however, have come as a cruel blow to someone who had presumably worried a great deal about him during the period of his recovery.”

“Yes. The timing is odd, to say the least. Even looking at it with a harder head than you – with the greatest of respect to you – are able to summon in this situation, it was a strange thing for him to do at that point. He was still bedridden for some time after he made that decision. One would think he would have been grateful for her attention over that period; he was a very sick man.”

“Do we know any more about the circumstances of the accident?” asked Sir Ardsley.

“It was nothing sinister, as far as I'm aware,” replied Boris. “He was out riding with a group of retainers, and his horse tripped and fell. Since they were all riding close together, it's very unlikely that there was anything like a tripwire, and they had ridden far enough to suggest that the horse had not been hobbled. It does appear to have been a genuine accident. Unfortunately, it happened near the top of an escarpment, and when he fell, he rolled down the scarp slope and hit a stone wall at the bottom. He was very lucky to survive at all.”

“Good loyal retainers,” said Sir Ardsley. “If any of them had had any traitorous inclinations, they could have killed him at that point without anyone noticing.”

“Oh, indeed,” Boris agreed. “But, in fact, they made a litter of branches and brought him home very carefully. They certainly had a hand in saving his life.”

Sir Ardsley nodded. “Yes. Antonov, of course, reported the accident, but he was obviously not present at the time, and he had no reason to see the Tsarevich while he was recovering.”

“Burova didn't see him either,” said Boris. “Very few people did, other than the doctor.”

“Semyonov,” said Sir Ardsley.

“That's correct. Oleg Mikhailovich Semyonov. What do you know about him?”

“A spark,” replied Sir Ardsley promptly.

Boris' eyes widened. “Indeed?”

“You didn't know?” Sir Ardsley was clearly astonished.

“No. Tell me how you know.” Boris' eyes glinted. “I have a feeling this could be important, Sir Ardsley.”

“I would have to check the files for the exact details,” Sir Ardsley replied, “but, if I recall correctly, Antonov overheard the Tsarina complaining about 'that spark doctor' in a way that made it clear she could only be referring to Semyonov.”

“All right. You check the files and give me the exact reference, and I'm going to get someone on Semyonov's trail.”

Sir Ardsley nodded. “Yes. A spark doctor would have built prosthetics, in the circumstances the Tsarevich was in. The question is, what sort... and in that, I suspect, our secret may lie.”

“Something they didn't want his young lady to know,” replied Boris grimly. “It may make you feel better to know that I suspect he didn't part company with her willingly. If the secret is in whatever Semyonov built to repair him, it's likely that he was made to do so.”

“And he hasn't been involved with anyone since,” said Sir Ardsley slowly. “The word we have is that there's a marriage under negotiation with a member of the Chinese royal house. But it's been taking a long time, and he must be fifty now.”

Boris nodded. “Oh yes, we've heard that one too. I don't personally believe it.”

“Given the extent of his injuries...” said Sir Ardsley, delicately.

Boris snorted. “You're such a prude sometimes that I'm amazed you've managed to father two children. Yes, that has crossed my mind. It is entirely possible that the Tsarevich can't have issue in the normal way. Which, evidently, would be mildly awkward for the succession... but it doesn't seem enough to be the secret that everyone wants to kill the Princess for. There is an heir presumptive. I mean, there have been plenty of childless monarchs, and even if the Tsarevich is capable of producing children, he is, as you say, leaving it late.”

“Indeed. If he has no children, the heir next in line will be his nephew, the Prince Arkadii.”

“Who will soon be of age,” said Boris. “And, by all accounts, he seems to be a very capable young man.”

“Yes.” Sir Ardsley was thinking hard. “And the Tsar has been ill for a long time now. Let me look at that time line again.” He pulled it towards him. “As I thought. His illness began before his son suffered the accident.”

“I think we are close,” said Boris. “Semyonov is the last link in the chain. I will have him found. Leave it with me, Sir Ardsley.”

Sir Ardsley nodded. “I shall have a copy of that report sent up to you at the first opportunity.”

Sir Ardsley did not have to wait long. It was no more than a week later when he received a cryptic note. “News from Russia. Come up. Boris.”

He found Boris sitting at his desk, just as before. “I have your note,” he said. “And I have not been idle myself.”

“Of course you haven't. I wouldn't expect it of you,” replied Boris. “But I have to see the Baron shortly, so this must be fairly brief. First, Semyonov disappeared very shortly after he treated the Tsarevich.”

“I am not at all surprised. Disappeared to, say, Siberia, or disappeared where none may follow?”

“Oh, plenty may follow, but even if they found him there, they could hardly bring him back. I don't know, Sir Ardsley; Russia will have to keep that one secret, I'm afraid. Either way, he is gone. And, secondly, I arranged for someone to poison the Tsarevich.”

Sir Ardsley stared at him. “Have you gone mad?”

“The Tsarevich is still alive, is he not?” said Boris, smiling cynically.

Sir Ardsley digested the implications. “That... was an exceedingly dangerous way to test a hypothesis, Boris.”

“Not so dangerous. The Tsar is still alive, albeit only just, and Prince Arkadii would be quite capable of taking over now. But I did not think the poison would prove fatal, even so.”

“You have a very ruthless streak,” said Sir Ardsley, a little shaken. “That is not something I would have done.”

“But it was effective. We now know that the Tsarevich cannot be poisoned. So, what have you been doing?”

“Pulling together all the information I myself could find on Semyonov,” Sir Ardsley replied. “Here. Take a look for yourself.” He deposited a large file on Boris' desk.

“H'mm,” said Boris, raising an eyebrow. “Thorough. Your people have more than ours do. Why?”

“See page 17,” replied Sir Ardsley.

Boris did. “Oh! Now that I didn't know. So he was in England!”

“He was. Not for very long. As you'll see, he got into trouble over some unauthorised experiments and was sent back to Russia. That's later. I'll leave the dossier for you to read at your leisure. But, yes, it seems we know a lot more about him than I would have expected.”

Boris flipped through the pages. “H'mm. Nothing very useful, though, by the look of it. He just seems to have been a fairly ordinarily unruly spark.”

“Why don't you have a look at the details of his unauthorised experiments?” asked Sir Ardsley.

Boris raised an eyebrow at him, and turned to the relevant pages. “ _Bozhe moy_ ,” he breathed.

Sir Ardsley nodded soberly. “Remember Selnikov's head?”

“Remember it? I still talk to it occasionally. But this is... worse, somehow.”

“Well, at least he can move around,” said Sir Ardsley. “But, you're right. It is disturbing.”

“Depends on exactly who we mean by 'he',” replied Boris. “That's definitely the Tsarevich's head. Everything below it is open to question. But whether the Tsarevich is still using that head or not...”

Sir Ardsley shuddered involuntarily. “I'm suddenly feeling less disturbed at the fact that you tried to poison him.”

“I thought you might. If the Tsarevich is already dead and that is just his head sitting on top of what is effectively a clank, it doesn't matter. There's no Tsarevich to kill. But if he's alive in there somewhere, I'm guessing poison might be quite a welcome release by now.”

“I should say he's probably dead,” said Sir Ardsley. “Otherwise, the secret wouldn't have been worth all the trouble.”

Boris nodded. “I agree with you. If he died shortly after the accident, Prince Arkadii would have been in no state to rule if his grandfather then died too. Something had to be done. And so, something was done. But it was essential that no one should know.”

“Indeed. What, incidentally, made you sure enough of your ground to conduct such a drastic test? You hadn't seen this dossier at that point. I, reading the dossier, was coming to a similar set of conclusions, although I did initially think that the Tsarevich was still using his head. I was, of course, thinking of Selnikov. But as soon as you mentioned the possibility that he might be dead, that did make more sense.”

Boris narrowed his eyes. “I wasn't sure. I simply knew enough not to want him on the throne of Russia. If he lived, it was further evidence, and if he died... long live Prince Arkadii.”

“Sweet lightning,” muttered Sir Ardsley.

“Good job you're as clever as you are, isn't it?” said Boris. “You must have had to be, to get by without a properly hard streak. Oh, you can do ruthless if you've no other choice; I know you can. I've seen it. But you won't, if you can find another way round.”

“That's a fair assessment,” replied Sir Ardsley equably. “Yes, I've done it. No, I don't like it. And now, if you're agreeable, I should like to sort out the final piece in this puzzle – the proof. We have a good, solid, coherent hypothesis, but it's nothing unless we can be sure of it.”

“Go on, then,” said Boris, with a certain dry amusement. “I'm interested. I know how I'd do that myself, and I want to see how you're going to do it.”

“Quite so. I have a good idea how you would do it, and I'd like to avoid doing that if at all possible,” Sir Ardsley countered.

“Heh,” said Boris. “Well, I won't knock it if it works, and with your track record I'm prepared to believe it probably will.”

Sir Ardsley nodded. “Thank you for your confidence. I'll be back when I have the results.”

He would have been the first to admit that his methods were slower than anything Boris might have tried, but at least they did have the great merit of not involving any kind of assassination attempt. The trouble with killing people, even aside from the moral considerations involved, was that you never knew what unexpected consequences it would have, and that applied at least tenfold when dealing with a major royal house. It did look very much as though the Tsarevich, or whatever was in his place, was nothing more than a stopgap intended to insure against the death of the current Tsar before Prince Arkadii was ready to ascend the throne. It also looked as though he, or it, might well be impossible – or at least very difficult – to kill. Nonetheless, Sir Ardsley was not about to risk rocking the boat with another assassination attempt, just in case this one actually worked.

On the other hand, there was one weapon Sir Ardsley kept in his arsenal for very occasional use. It was not by any means his normal style, but, when the time and the place was right, he could bring it out with aplomb.

Sometimes, there was nothing for it but to put on a great big spectacular show. And this looked like being one of those times. Time, then, to go and have a little chat with Gil.

There were subsequent negotiations which did not, at least ostensibly, involve any British Ambassadors at all. Nor, for once, did they involve Boris, since in his dealings with Russia Gil had to make it appear that he was not entirely sure he trusted him. This was why Boris was very surprised indeed when the Imperial Russian dirigible _Nadezhda_ drew up next to Castle Wulfenbach one fine morning and requested permission to dock alongside.

Sir Ardsley was not surprised. But then, he was already on board Castle Wulfenbach. He would not miss this one for the world.

He was enjoying a leisurely breakfast, satisfied that the fun would not start until all the usual official protocols had been satisfied, when Lady Heterodyne walked in. “Hey! Mr W... er, Sir Ardsley, I should say!” she grinned. “It's been ages. How are you keeping?”

“Oh, very well indeed, thank you. And you?”

“Couldn't be better. What's that you're having? It smells great. I'm ravenous.”

“Mushroom omelette. It's got a few chives in it. I can recommend that.”

“Rather plain fare for a British Ambassador, surely?” she teased.

“One doesn't automatically develop a taste for quails' eggs and black truffles simply because one goes up in the world. Not that I object to those things, but I would still rather have a nice omelette for breakfast, given the choice.” He smiled. “Besides, you like omelettes too, and you naturally outrank me.”

She smiled. “Gil tells me you're up to something,” she said. “But he won't say what.”

“Oh, no, that's our little surprise,” replied Sir Ardsley. “You'll soon see.”

“Yes, but I'm still mystified about why he wanted to borrow the Jägers. He's got strong enough clanks for whatever he needs, hasn't he?”

“It's not a question of that,” said Sir Ardsley. “This business specifically requires Dimo and Maxim.”

She laughed. “Heh. You're not going to tell me, are you? I know when you're in Master Spy mode. You never really stop, even when you get promoted. All right, I'm going to go and get my omelette now and stop asking questions.” She paused. “Except one. How's the family?”

“All very well, thank you for asking.”

After breakfast, he walked with her to the large salon where Gil was receiving his royal guests. The Tsar, naturally, was too ill to travel, and the Tsarina was effectively acting as regent on his behalf; but the Tsarevich, who was naturally the whole point of the exercise, was there, and so was Prince Arkadii, along with his current companion, Lady Ludmila Alexeievna Levkova, who was rumoured in court to be engaged to marry him. Sir Ardsley sized up the Tsarevich with a practised eye, now that he had him at close enough quarters to do so. He was a big, elegant man, and there was something about both his build and his style of dress which put Sir Ardsley somewhat in mind of Martellus von Blitzengaard; but he had not the quick, arrogant, bullish movements. Indeed, he moved very smoothly and gracefully.

Too smoothly. And he wore white gloves, with his rings outside them.

He caught Maxim's eye, but without giving any obvious signal. The Jäger gave him the barest of professional nods. He knew not to grin or wink back at his old friend. Too much was at stake here. Well done, Maxim, thought Sir Ardsley. Well done.

And there was Dimo, over on the other side, carrying a tray of drinks. Lady Heterodyne spotted him.

“Why is Dimo...?” she began, in an undertone. Sir Ardsley put a finger to his lips swiftly, and gave Dimo the same quick, wooden look he had given to Maxim. The big Jäger started moving unhurriedly and apparently aimlessly through the crowd.

It was at about this point in the proceedings that Boris walked in. Sir Ardsley could not repress a little, schoolboyish grin. Oh, excellent timing, Boris, he thought. Perfect. I won't even need to give you a report.

And then all hell broke loose.

Dimo tripped. He was not particularly close to the Tsarevich at this point, but he was in such a position that the Tsarevich was directly between him and Maxim. Maxim saw the tray of drinks go flying and rushed to help; his boots skidded wildly on the polished parquet. His arms flailed in the air, doing an utterly convincing impression of someone struggling to keep their balance. And one hand caught the nearest support, which, naturally, happened to be the back of the Tsarevich's collar.

One hand. One long, sinewy, purple Jäger hand, with a set of razor-sharp claws.

Maxim's claw sliced straight down through the collar, and everything below it as far as the waist, where it finally disengaged and Maxim slipped down into an untidy and completely realistic heap on the floor. Gil ran up to the scene in well-simulated horror and fury. “You stupid Jägers! Can't you do any damn thing right?”

“Hy very sorry, Herr Baron,” said Maxim, in a small voice. “Hy vos only tryink to help.”

“Just... someone...” Gil stopped.

Oh yes. The screaming had started.

They hadn't known. Not even Prince Arkadii had had the faintest idea, and that sent a pang of guilt through Sir Ardsley. The poor young man was standing there, pale with horror, mouthing the word “ _Dyada?_ ” brokenly. Uncle, thought Sir Ardsley. I'd better do something.

He stepped gently up to the stricken Prince and took his arm. “Your Highness,” he said, gently, in Russian. “Come over here and sit down. I'm sorry. You've had a terrible shock.”

“That is hardly your fault, _Gospodin_ ,” replied the Prince.

It was, but Sir Ardsley could hardly admit that. He was also not sure about being addressed in such a respectful fashion, but that was a minor matter. “Can I get you anything, Your Highness?”

The Prince shook his head. “I will be all right. But thank you for your concern.”

The Tsarevich spoke. Now that everyone could see what he was, it was somehow horrible.

“I have no instructions regarding how to respond to this situation,” he announced.

“He is not my uncle,” said the Prince. Sir Ardsley was amazed at how calm he suddenly sounded. This young man was going to make a good Tsar, very soon.

“He has probably not been your uncle since your uncle had his accident,” he said. “We know something here about the doctor who treated him.”

“Ah, you do?” Prince Arkadii treated him to a calculating gaze. The only possible thing to do was to meet it full on.

“I am an Englishman. Semyonov was in England for a while.”

“So I had heard. You... threw him out, I understand.”

“Yes. We did, Your Highness.”

“I begin to understand why,” said Prince Arkadii bitterly. “You should have thrown him in the sea, _Gospodin_. But I do not know your name. I should have asked.”

“Sir Ardsley Wooster. I am the British Ambassador here.”

“Sir Ardsley Wooster.” The Prince managed the un-Russian syllables very creditably; he was probably well able to speak English, if he wished. “I will remember you.”

That might cut one of two ways. Prince Arkadii was clearly far from stupid. Still, there would be enough time to concern himself about that in the future. In the meantime, Gil was in the process of sorting out all the mayhem, Lady Heterodyne was making absolutely certain that her two loyal Jägers were not really hurt in any way, and Boris was standing on the other side of the room directing an entire monologue at nobody in particular with his eyebrows.

It was hardly a sensible idea to go and talk to Boris in front of the Russian contingent, but he did catch him later, once matters had been fully settled. (This had involved the Prince taking over the reins and immediately sending the Tsarevich clank back aboard the _Nadezhda_ as a prisoner; what exactly was to be done about him, or possibly it, was left open to question, but whatever it was, it was at least not going to happen aboard Castle Wulfenbach.) When he did, Boris greeted him with a half-smile of reluctant admiration.

“That was showy, Sir Ardsley,” he said. “But devastatingly effective.”

“And not too difficult to achieve,” replied Sir Ardsley. “I've known those two Jägers for a very long time. And, of course, Oggie, but he's... well, he has many fine qualities, but he's not much of an actor. Dimo and Maxim, though, I knew could do what was needed. I thought Maxim's performance in particular was outstanding.”

“Ah. He's the purple one?”

“Oh, yes. And something of a natural showman. It had to be the Jägers, because they could make it look like a genuine accident, but if anything did go wrong... well, they're not Gil's Jägers. He borrowed them from the Lady Heterodyne to help out. So nobody could blame him, and nobody could blame her either; he'd just have to say he needed extra help, and she'd just have to say she didn't know what they were going to be asked to do. Which is, of course, true in both cases.”

“You would think of Jägers,” said Boris. “I do believe they're your default option. Why do you like them so much, anyway?”

Sir Ardsley shrugged. “I lived with them for a long time. In the caves outside Mechanicsburg. They were good friends and true.”

“I still can't imagine that. I mean, you, of all people, you with your starched collars and your even starchier British manners and your chess-player's brain, stuck in a cave with a pack of unwashed Jägers, and you... got on with them?”

“Oh, come now, Boris. They weren't unwashed. Perhaps not quite as washed as I was, but even so, still washed.”

Boris shrugged. For him, that was a complicated and rather elegant manoeuvre. “Well, they say unlikes attract, I suppose. Anyway, the infamous secret will be all over Europa soon enough, and Prince Arkadii will certainly now be confirmed as the heir apparent; and, of course, your Princess should now be safe. She could probably even go back to Russia now, if she wished.”

“Not my Princess,” replied Sir Ardsley.

“You know what I meant.” Boris paused. “I could, I think, get word to her, if you want. She might appreciate knowing how the secret was revealed, in the end.”

“Do that if you wish, but keep my name out of it,” replied Sir Ardsley. “I'm a married man now. I do not want to risk re-igniting any old embers that should have burnt out. Feel free to take the credit for that little spectacle yourself, should you so wish.”

“And you have no old embers smouldering yourself?”

“No, and I can say that with a perfectly clear conscience.” Sir Ardsley smiled. “Nonetheless, I have kept the ashes. My wife has some ashes of her own, and does not begrudge me that.”

“You went to a lot of trouble for some ashes,” said Boris.

“They were ashes from a bright flame. And a pure one.”

Boris shook his head. “Sir Ardsley, I respect you as you well know, but I think I am never going to understand you.”

Sir Ardsley suddenly smiled, a wide, relaxed, almost mischievous, genuinely happy smile. “That,” he replied, “is because you are the most appalling old cynic I know, Boris. But, in spite of that, and in spite of the fact that we are never going to agree about the point at which it becomes necessary to use violence, I am getting to like you very much.”

Boris blinked. “I scared you a little when I said I'd tried to poison the Tsarevich. And you still say that?”

“Gil used to scare me. Quite a lot, sometimes. Some of his experiments... well, I needn't tell you, need I? I liked him anyway until he scared me deliberately and with malice aforethought. And now I like him again. Of course, he doesn't scare me now, but then he's more careful, I think.” Sir Ardsley was still beaming. “Boris. We've won. Stop looking so shocked. I said we'd be good working together, didn't I? And, look. Here we are. We're good.”

“Sir Ardsley, have you been drinking?”

“Not a drop. I couldn't afford to, after all, not with everything that was at stake.”

“You're grinning like a maniac!”

“I am _happy_ , Boris.”

“What, because of the Princess?”

“Partly. But she's only one factor in it.” Sir Ardsley lowered himself into a chair, still managing to do it elegantly despite the sudden, fizzingly euphoric mood that had seized him. “Listen, Boris. Ever since I set foot on this nest of chaos that calls itself a continent, I have been involved in plots and counterplots. I have been threatened, hit, shot at, frightened in an impressive variety of ways both intentional and otherwise, bored half to death, forced to go trailing for miles on foot through dangerous territory (more than once, I might add), dragged into an assortment of hair-raising adventures I never asked to be involved in, and frequently, if you'll pardon my French, bloody embarrassed. And not only that – I don't mind telling you this, since you appear to know all about it already – but on top of everything that's been going on outside, I've also been battling my own inner demons. I cannot count the number of times I've thought about suicide.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “And I am alive, Boris. And I have a loving wife and two delightful daughters, and my best friend is my best friend again, and everyone who was previously trying to kill me is now either reconciled or well out of the way, and I'm a well-respected Ambassador rather than just some spy to be shuffled around like a pawn and disowned when it suits people to do so, and now, just to put the cherry on top, nobody is going to go and murder my first love while my back is turned. I think I'm allowed to do a bit of maniacal grinning. Don't you?”

“You're... not all starch, are you?” said Boris. It seemed a very feeble reply, somehow, but at the moment it was the best he could muster. Sir Ardsley had taken him aback.

“Certainly not.” The light danced in his eyes. “The starch is just there to hold the fire in place. Don't forget that, Boris!” He sprang out of the chair. “I'm going to go and see Dimo and Maxim. It should be safe now.”

“I have never seen you like this,” said Boris, slowly.

“Probably not. I haven't often seen me like this, either. But, you know what? I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts. It's quite possible that next time you see me, I shall be the tense blighter you're used to, running my hands through my hair all the time and looking as though I'm worried I may be about to be randomly shot.” He laughed. “And if I am, give me a good hard kick under the desk.”

“My desk, if you recall, has a modesty panel. I'd stub my toe.”

“Ah. Can't have that. Well, just tell me off, then. If it doesn't work, it doesn't work, but I'd like you to try. You'd be doing me a service. I don't _want_ to be that tense blighter. I want to be who I am now.”

“Right now, Sir Ardsley, you appear to be slightly mad.”

“I probably do. But it's sheer relief. The last weight has just been lifted off, and I didn't realise what a weight it had been until it was gone. All the other weights – they've been vanishing for some time now. But they're gone. All of them. Sweet lightning, man, now I think I know what one of Gil's experiments feels like.”

“You _are_ mad,” said Boris.

“No. No, I assure you, I'm not.” His expression became suddenly serious. “Not mad. Not drunk. Just real.”

“There'll be more weights. There are always weights. Everyone has them.”

“I know. But I've been struggling under more weights than it made any sense to expect someone to be able to bear. And I expected myself to be able to bear them, and other people expected it of me. And... that was not a reasonable expectation.”

“But you bore them.”

“Not unscathed,” replied Sir Ardsley, and there was something in his eyes that Boris could not, in all conscience, mistake for any kind of insanity. “I still have the demons in my head, and those weren't there when I first set foot on the Continent. The first time I felt like killing myself was in Paris. But now, at least, I think I can be confident they will never win.”

His utter honesty had an effect on Boris. “I too have been there, Sir Ardsley,” he said. “Like you, more times than I can count.”

“Then talk to me whenever you need someone to listen. You know Gil always welcomes me on board.”

“I will,” said Boris, slowly. “And I'm sorry I once threw that in your face. That was below the belt, even for a man who'd poison a Tsarevich.” He smiled wryly.

“You needn't apologise. The only way you could have known about my demons was if your own had recognised them.” Sir Ardsley smiled again. “It's only recently I've talked about them even with Gil.”

“I... think I'm going off to have a stern word with mine,” said Boris. “If you can beat yours, I can do the same to mine.”

“Go to it, Boris. I'm going off to see the Jägers.”

Boris watched him stride off jauntily down the corridor, then walked back more slowly and thoughtfully towards his own office.

I must be getting old, he thought. I'm genuinely getting to like you too, you crazy Brit.

**Author's Note:**

> This is quite a personal note, so feel free to skip it if that's uncomfortable.
> 
> When I started writing this story, I had no idea it was going to end the way it did. It was just going to be a nice little collaboration story - this pair of smooth operators solves the mystery, and then they sit and exchange brief grins because they both know they're so darned clever. I didn't expect Mr Wooster - Sir Ardsley, I beg his pardon - to go manic like that. Not even though I have identified pretty strongly with him for quite a while, because it's no secret that I have my own mental health issues, and, frankly, the way he deals with his is awesome. He's got the demons in his head as he says, but he never does let them win, even when he's scared half to death and rumpling his hair till it sticks out in all directions. That's why he's my alter ego and (partial) role model. I wouldn't want his job at any price, but if he can cope with that, then surely I can cope with the lesser challenges that I have thrown at me.
> 
> But he went manic. He didn't consult me about it or anything; he just went off and I had to write him. It was a very strange experience. I was still not in a good place mentally myself, and I'd got someone else's relief and joy bubbling up through my fingers and the keyboard onto the screen in front of me. And then I went and collapsed into bed, and when I got up, I felt a lot better.
> 
> Thank you, Sir Ardsley. You've been a tremendous help. I think this is now the end of the Intensive Mental Health Wooster-thon, though I might add further stories in future depending on exactly what happens in canon; but I've got a wonderful original character out of all this who is going to take off on her own as a steampunk detective in a parallel, but not completely unrelated, universe. Take a bow, Harriet.
> 
> And yes, of course she'll still have an Uncle Ardsley. Because respect. :-)


End file.
